


Deth by Murder

by lemone



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemone/pseuds/lemone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dethklok hosts a murder mystery dinner at Mordhaus.  People get murdered.  To death.</p><p> </p><p>*Originally written as a part of the Hearts and Guts Exchange 2010 for Xelias*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deth by Murder

Number 5722, or ‘Ofdensen’s New Assistant’ as most called him these days, stood dutifully by as his superior readied himself for the evening’s festivities.

5722 had known of Mr. Ofdensen before becoming his assistant, of course- even most laypersons who weren’t even worthy of making it through the first round of the trials did. But 5722 suspected that only those who were skilled enough to work closely with him ever realized how much the man radiated. He radiated calm, razor-sharp purpose. Surety. Fearlessness.

5722 had been working with Mr. Ofdensen less than a week when he first dreamed of the man. Of fucking him, to be specific. He had awakened, sheets soaked with sweat and other unmentionable fluids, and felt bone deep shame. Not because Mr. Ofdensen was a man, but because he was 5722’s superior officer. It betrayed a weakness that one could not afford in his position. Very unprofessional.

Weeks later, desperate, he confessed his predicament to Number 216, a senior officer for whom he had the utmost respect. 216 had laughed in his face.

“Yeah, you and every other poor dildo that got stuck with that job,” he said with an indifferent wave. “Means you got another-“ 216 stopped to think for a bit. “Two weeks. Maybe two and a half.” 216 made a ‘more or less’ gesture.

5722 was proud to say that this had happened nearly a month ago.

Since that day, 5722 had indulged in fantasizing about Mr. Ofdensen at every given opportunity. Yes, it was unprofessional, but when tomorrow was not only unpromised but unlikely, it hardly seemed to matter. So he let his imagination run wild.

In his fantasies, 5722 was usually the one on the giving end of things, but Mr. Ofdensen was still completely in control. Utterly dominant. 5722’s personal favorites always involved Mr. Ofdensen’s chair in the command center. On his knees before Mr. Ofdensen, pleasing him. Or, on the odd occasion when he felt particularly bold, he imagined Mr. Ofdensen allowing him to sit there himself as Mr. Ofdensen rode him.

5722 did his best to not allow himself to be distracted by such thoughts as Mr. Ofdensen reiterated orders for the evening. A great deal of work had gone into ensuring this evening was a success. It meant a lot to the Masters. Master Explosion in particular had been seeking out Mr. Ofdensen on a daily basis for weeks to make sure Mr. Ofdensen would be attending.

“It’s gonna be totally brutal!” Lord Explosion would remind him at every turn. “Everyone’s gonna dress up fancy and there’s gonna be **foooood** and **murder** and everyone gets to try and guess who’s killin’ everybody. It’s a murder dinner! It’s gonna be awesome. You’re still comin, right?”

“Of course I am, Nathan,” Mr. Ofdensen had said patiently.

“Because I don’t want you blowin’ this off for work. You can’t do that. You can’t do work while we’re havin’ our murder dinner. Because if you’re working, you’ll miss it. You can’t miss it, it’s gonna be totally brutal.”

“I already said I wouldn’t,” Mr. Ofdensen reminded him.

“You have to come.”

“I have every intention of doing so.”

At this point Lord Explosion would frown, as if searching for a loophole that Mr. Ofdensen might try to worm his way through. Then he would stomp away, telling Mr. Ofdensen that he would see him at the time and place of the dinner.

Mr. Ofdensen checked his watch. “You need to get into position. The guests will be arriving shortly.”

5722 nodded and did as he was told. As it happened, the position in question was quite some distance from where he was currently located. There were several consecutive elevator rides involved. 5722 decided to make the best use of his time by mentally going over the guests who would be serving as victims for the party. It would seem that Mr. Ofdensen was using the occasion to ‘clean house,’ as it were. There was a handful of individuals who had gone against Dethklok, for whom the Masters held no love, and that Mr. Ofdensen had deemed expendable. On the whole, 5722 had found Mr. Ofdensen’s choice in victims unsurprising, save for Dr. Twinkletits.

5722 was unaware that the Masters had a therapist on the payroll, much less one with such a god-awful name. Nonetheless, he had apparently been working for the Masters for quite some time, and Mr. Ofdensen had been keeping close tabs on the man from the beginning. His methods were highly unprofessional, he had not shown the appropriate amount of deference to the Masters, and a more thorough background check had revealed that his psychology degree was less than legitimate. In short, the man was a quack and a total dildo.

As such, Mr. Ofdensen had already found his replacement. A Dr. Corpsegrinder who, in addition to having a much better name, came with impeccable references, had already been fully vetted, and had signed the appropriate pain waivers and contracts (which included a rather interesting patient confidentiality agreement that Mr. Ofdensen had come up with for the occasion). 5722 hadn’t seen it himself, but he had overheard Mr. Ofdensen’s paralegal say it was the most brutal contract she had ever seen. 5722 didn’t doubt that this was the case. Mr. Ofdensen was a very brutal man, and he seemed quite proud of his handiwork this time around. 5722 remembered seeing Mr. Ofdensen handing the first draft of the contract in question off to be edited and put on file. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a glow of satisfaction about him. He knew they wouldn’t find any fault in it. No loopholes, no grammatical mistakes, nothing. All a part of the allure that was Mr. Ofdensen.

The elevator reached its destination and came to a smooth stop. The doors opened with a soft hiss. Icy wind whipped in, slicing through the thin material of 5722’s hood. The roof was deserted, save for a pair of gargoyles at the far edge, directly above entrance 26b. 5722 removed the leather gloves from his pocket as he strode over to them. He put them on and waited.

******

Leonard Rockstein, better known as Dr. Rockzo, the Rock ‘n Roll clown, clung desperately to the door frame of his home, screaming for help he knew wouldn’t come.

“I don’t wanna go to no murder dinner,” he wailed. “This is kuh-kuh-kuh-kidnappin’!”

Four Klokateers pulled on his legs as two others tried to pry his hands from the door frame. “Be reasonable,” grunted the one yanking his left leg. “It’s just a simple murder-based five-course black tie event hosted by the Masters. Nothing to get upset over.”

“Bull-kuh-kuh-kuh-shit! I know what this is! That kuh-kuh-creepy manager guy is tryin’ to kuh-kill poor old Dr. Rockzo! Well, Dr. Rockzo ain’t fallin’ for it! He ain’t goin,’ and you can’t make him! Not fer all the kuh-kuh-coke in Colombia! No, no, no-”

At that moment, one of the Klokateers had the bright idea of using his taser. Rockzo let out a howl of pain as 10,000 volts coursed through his system and he crumpled to the ground with a thud, letting go of the door frame as he went.

Rockzo’s nails scraped little indentations into his front walk as the Klokateers dragged him towards their Ominously Nondescript Van™ and threw the Rock ‘n Roll clown into the back. His screams faded as the van sped away.

******

Richard Johnson Knubbler, known simply as ‘Dick’ to most everyone who knew him, straightened his tie carefully. Then he checked himself out in the mirror. Or at least he tried to, as his robotic eyes were lagging pretty heavily today. Finally his reflection jerkily appeared in front of him. It looked as good as it ever did, and he turned away to finish getting ready.

On his way out, he scooped up a manila folder, purchased at Office Depot for a dollar, that he had spent hour after meticulous hour filling. Contained in it was a detailed overview of every Crystal Mountain employee he had met - the ones who were capable of doing the job he was doing right now for Dethklok, anyway. That, and all the things wrong with them as human beings. For example, there was Labia Monroe, a back-biting gossip whose vapid laugh had been known to drive men mad. Clive Toris, loud, misogynistic, know-it-all asswipe extraordinaire. His personal hygiene made Murderface look metrosexual. Edward van Defrons was known to steal anything not nailed down. In addition, there was a detailed statement on the payments he had been making to his robotic eyes (Ofdensen was garnishing his pay), which showed he had another $472,663.71 to go before they were paid off. Finally, there was a picture of Murderface taped the back of the folder. Knubbler had drawn little tears on him in Sharpie for extra effect.

Knubbler planned to make a beeline for Ofdensen as soon as he arrived at this so-called ‘Murder Dinner’ and hand the folder right to him.

Mama Knubbler didn’t raise no fool.

******

Seth, who hadn’t changed his name as his brother had but still disliked his embarrassingly-Irish last name enough to prefer simply going by his first, gazed out the window of the plane idly as the stewardess refilled his drink.

Well, his plane to be exact. His brand-new, bought with Dethklok Inc. funds, personal plane. A tiny part of him wished he hadn’t named his son Seth Jr. so that he could name the plane that, but he supposed it was for the best. Besides, he liked the name Angela. And, now that he thought about it, planes should probably have chick names, like ships.

Seth sipped his drink as he congratulated himself on his brilliance. The best part, he decided, was that no one even knew the money was missing. It had started out slow - a thousand here, a thousand there. He’d been careful to wait in between the here’s and there’s, the perfect story already concocted in case Offin- what was it? Stein? Smith? Whatever. In case his brother’s manager caught wind and tried to sue. Not that he would go so far as to sue his client’s family, but still. It never hurt to be careful.

Seth held up his scotch, regarding its deep mahogany color in satisfaction. When nobody had noticed, he had started taking more and more money until he ended up with enough for his new friend here with more than enough to hire some chicks to bring him drinks and fluff his pillow. No one was the wiser. And finally, finally, things were going his way. He was getting what was coming to him and more. Everything was comin’ up Seth.

******

Damien Roy Cornickelson, known by a variety of names that few repeated to his face, was scheduled to arrive at entrance 45D at 1700 hours. The helicopter that brought him up to Mordhaus touched down at 25 minutes after, by which point the cold had made 5722’s testicles crawl up somewhere around his kidneys. Deep down, 5722 knew that Cornickelson couldn’t know what awaited him, and even if he did, the man would just not come instead of showing up late. But it made him feel better to call Cornicklelson a stupid bastard dildo deep in his heart for making him wait out in the cold, so he did.

As Cornickelson approached, 5722 wondered how Mr. Ofdensen was going to pull this off. Wouldn’t Cornickelson’s father be a tad, well, _miffed_ that his son had died on Mordhaus grounds? They were going to the trouble of making it look like an accident, and accidents of a much more implausible nature were fairly common around Mordland, but 5722 found himself doubting that Cornickelson Senior would buy it. So how-

Suddenly, Number 5722 felt the gargoyle slip from his fingers as another set of hands shoved it off of the edge of the roof. 5722 turned to see Mr. Ofdensen next to him in his tuxedo and a pair of leather gloves nearly identical to 5722’s own.

5722 was flabbergasted. No one, not even Mr. Ofdensen, could have snuck up on him like that. It was impossible. How-

Mr. Ofdensen leaned over the edge of the roof. 5722 did the same. Cornickelson’s corpse lay sprawled a few feet from the doorstep where the gargoyle had landed on his head, effectively obliterating it. 5722 turned to Mr. Ofdensen, who was smiling, really smiling, for the first time since 5722 had known him, perfect white teeth barely visible in the dim light. Gorgeous.

Mr. Ofdensen turned from the scene below to 5722, his smile dissolving back into the professional persona 5722 was used to. Mr. Ofdensen strode towards the elevator and 5722 found himself scrambling to fall into step behind him.

“Sir?” 5722 felt he should say something at this moment, but what?

“You’ll have to understand,” said Mr. Ofdensen, his face impassive. “It’s not as if I thought you were incapable of completing such a simple task. It’s just that there are certain things a man must do for himself.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir.”

Mr. Ofdensen turned towards him. “I read that contract he was trying to get the boys to sign.” Mr. Ofdensen’s expression spoke volumes: no more explanation was necessary.

 _‘Take me now, you brutal stud of a man,’_ 5722 thought deliriously.

Apparently considering the matter settled, Mr. Ofdensen pressed the button that would send them to the floor that held the dining room, where the Masters were waiting.

******

“Why isn’t he here? He was supposed to be here already.”

Pickles turned from filling the punch bowl with moonshine to answer him. “Na’tan, it’s cool. Don’ go gettin’ yerself inna tizzy. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute. He’s jest off collatin’ some spreadsheets or effin’ with his receipts or whatever.”

Toki came up to the punch bowl and started filling a glass. “Ja, Nathans, he ams probably offs collikateings de spreads sheets or-“

“Toki.”

“You don’ts needs to gets de tizzys-“

“Toki!”

“Ja, Pickle?”

Pickles spoke slowly, as if to a particularly dense five year old. Or a band mate. “What did we say about dat repeatin’ people crehp?”

Toki’s eyes were wide and innocent as they ever were. “Dat it annoying as fucks?”

“Dat’s right. It’s annoyin’ as fuck.”

Nathan took out his Dethphone. “Maybe he forgot what time it was. You think I should text him? I think I should text him.”

Pickles grinned, eyes wicked and mischievous. “Ohhhhh. So yer werried somethin’s hehppened to da little guy?”

“Ja, you’s worried dat somethings-“

Pickles wheeled around. “Toki! What did I just say?”

Nathan stood perfectly still, hoping the others would just ADD off from the conversation so he would be off the hook. Luckily for him, Skwisgaar picked that moment to say something douchey to Toki from across the room, and Pickles ambled off to point and laugh while they had their cat-fight.

Shit. That was close. He almost got caught caring for somebody there. And that would have **suuuuuuucked**. Especially since it wasn’t his fault. Nobody knew what had happened to Charles with that whole dying thing. Nathan still wasn’t sure whether the guy had actually died or not. So there was no way of knowin’ when something might happen again. And sure, yeah, he wanted to fuck Charles. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, everybody enjoyed getting laid. But giving a shit about someone else’s well being? Totally queer. He’d never live it down!

Charles picked that exact moment to walk in, his assistant behind him. Nathan pocketed his Dethphone and rushed over to meet him before Murderface could be a dick and get in the way and shit.

Not because he had been really worried or cared about him or anything. Because he wasn’t! He didn’t! He was just tired of talking to his jack off band mates was all.

******

The rest of the guests arrived in short order. Knubbler made sure to hand Charles his folder as soon as he saw the other man. Charles handed it to his assistant, who flipped through it and handed it to the trash can. Pickles shut down in frigid silence as soon as Seth walked in the door. He crossed his skinny arms he scanned the assembled crowd, trying to figure out what douchebag had invited his effin’ brother.

Upon arrival, Rockzo clung to Toki, crying about how the Klokateers had been mean to poor old Dr. Rockzo, and hit him, and made him put on a tux they had brought with them, and had stopped the van at a Dairy Queen on the way to the helicopter that took him to Mordhaus but had left him in the van and hadn’t let him get anything. Toki patted his back consolingly. Dairy Queen did have those real cool candy ice cream things, after all.

“Okay, everybody,” said Nathan, motioning towards the table. “ **LET’S GET STARTED**!”

Several people winced, holding their ears. Aside from the band, who had been rendered near-deaf by years of metal, and Charles, who simply did not wince or hold his ears. Ever.

Everyone took their seats, save Murderface, who produced a grubby, crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

“Okay, scho. Nathan is havin’ me schay a few things before we get schstarted. Firchst of all-“

“De butlers did it!” Skwisgaar leapt up from his seat, pointing one long finger at Charles grandly.

“Skwisgaar, nobody’s even died yet,” said Nathan.

“Ja, _Skwisgaar_ , nobody’s whats even-“

“Toki!” Pickles made an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture.

“ _Anyway_ ,” continued Murderface. “I got a few thingsch to schay before we schtart. I want you all to know that juscht becausche I have to do the Truman Capote part here doeschn’t make me gay-“

“Just read the fuckin’ paper I gave you Murderface,” growled Nathan.

“I juscht wanted to add a little extra schpeschial schomething to thisch, Nathan. Make schure everyone knowsch I’m not queer.”

Nathan was starting to get annoyed. “You not being gay doesn’t have anything to do with anything. **AGAIN**.” Beside him, Charles covertly checked the text messages on his Dethphone while he waited for this to run its natural course.

“I don’t underschtand why I’m schtuck doing thisch schitty little schpeech. I didn’t want to do the schpeech, I wanted to be able to pick out a disch! My idea for a disch was aweschome Nathan, why wouldn’t you let me-“

“Nobody wants to eat anything with fuckin’ Eezy Cheezy on it at a fuckin’ black tie dinner. Now just fuckin’ **READ** IT so we can eat our fuckin’ **FOOD** because I’m **STARVING**.”

Murderface stuck out his bottom lip in petulant anger, but did as he was told. “Gentlemen, tonight-” he put the paper an inch from his face, squinting. “You are invited to dinner and a bit of murder. Each course, there will be good food, but also schomebody will die. Schomebody will die because schomebody else will kill them and it will be totally brutal.”

Rockzo leaned in to Toki, who was sitting next to him and whispered. “Nathan kuh-kuh wrote that?”

Toki’s eyes went wide. “Wow-wee, Rockzo’s, how did you knows dat?”

Murderface continued. “Everybody will get to try and guesch-“

Skwisgaar leapt from his seat again. “DE BUTLERS DIDS IT!”

Murderface’s eye twitched. “You know what? Fuck you guysch, I don’t wanna be a part of your faggy little killin’ people dinner. I got better schit to do with my time, I got me a movie about what woulda happened if the Schouth won, and you know what? I thought you fuckheads would’ve fuckin’ appreschiated that I would take time out of my buschy, productive schedule to schpend time with you schitty lowlife dicksch, but if you don’t then FUCK YOU.”

Murderface stomped away, muttering darkly about killing himself as soon as he was done with his movie. He slammed the door behind him, rattling the picture frames on the wall.

Charles turned to Knubbler. “Richard, if you would go and, ah, keep William _company_ , then that would be nice.”

Knubbler pushed his chair in, his eyes blinking caution yellow in confusion. “Sure. But, um, why did you guys invite me here…?”

Charles arched an eyebrow. “Because the boys, ah, wanted you here. William in particular likes having you around.”

Knubbler’s eyes stayed yellow for a second, then switched to a happy lime green. “Oh!”

Rockzo leapt up. “I think I better do kuh-kuh, I mean follow you, that Murderface guy likes me too! I-”

 _“Sit,”_ Charles said icily.

Rockzo whimpered a little bit as he sat back down.

*******

Each band mate had been allowed to pick one dish in the five course murder meal. Except that Skwisgaar said it was dildos (Nathan suspected it was a cover for him not being able to think of anything) and Murderface would’ve just picked some god-awful shit, so Nathan ended up picking two dishes himself and let Charles pick the appetizer. It turned out to be seared tuna with some kinda fancy sauce (Nathan wasn’t really listening when Jean-Pierre announced what it was) atop a bed of bullshit lettuce. Well, fancy green shit. Whatever.

Nathan ate his in about 15 seconds and then felt like a total gross fatass slob when Charles and everybody else, like, actually took time to savor theirs and talked in between bites and stuff instead of just gobbling it all down.

Urg. He really had let himself go, hadn’t he?

Having nothing else better to do, he watched what the other people were doing. After a bit, Nathan happened to glance down and noticed Charles’s hand resting casually on the blood red tablecloth. Since Charles was sitting on Nathan’s right side, it just so happened that Charles’s left was closest. Looking now, Nathan noticed there was this tiny, thin strip of white skin just barely paler than the area around it. A tan line. Well, not really, more of a ‘slightly more pale’ line, but whatever.

A ring used to be there. And it had to be a wedding ring, right? Charles wasn’t really into jewelry or anything. That meant he had been married, at least at one point. Nathan knitted his brows together, searching his memories of Charles, trying to remember if he had ever seen a lady around him, or heard Charles mention one. He couldn’t think of anything. It made him feel pretty shitty. Shouldn’t he know this, or something? It seemed pretty basic.

Nathan wondered what kind of lady she was. Did Charles have, like, a type? Was she pretty? Did Charles have to go looking for a lady shorter than him, or was he one of those guys that didn’t give a shit if he went out with someone taller than him?

He betted she was mean, Charles’s ex. And she, like, totally dragged him off to the shitty mall, and shoe shopping, and fuckin’ Bed, Bath, & Beyond. And that fuckin’ candle store where all the candles smelled like food and it totally made him hungry but she wouldn’t let him go to the food court for a snack and yelled at him for talking too loud and wouldn’t even let him get anything to eat after even though all he really wanted was an Orange Julius. No, then she’d drag him off to fuckin’ A. C. Moore for scrapbooking supplies, and they didn’t even have any nice skull stickers or anything. They had fuckin’ stickers for Rhode Island and bathtub stickers, but no skulls or rotting corpse stickers. What the fuck was that all about? There wasn’t anything worth making a scrapbook about in Rhode Island or the bathtub. What if you wanted to make a scrapbook about something brutal?

Actually, that was an idea. Death metal scrapbooking supplies. Stickers and stamps and unreasonably priced shiny black paper with the Dethklok logo embossed on it. Bring ultimate brutality to the scrapbook making world. They could make a killing. Dude, he should tell Charles about this before he could forget-

The lights went out, shrouding the room in total, blinding blackness. It was pretty cool, actually. There was a wet, squelching sound. Nathan sensed a sudden movement to his right as Charles did something and then the lights came back on.

Twinkletits was slumped in his seat, a long knife buried hilt-deep in his temple. The tip, tiny and gore-caked, stuck out on the other side of his head. It was like those joke arrows people used to wear except real and totally awesome and brutal instead of dumb and lame.

On Twinkletits’s empty plate there was a note. Oh, a clue! **Aweome**! Nathan snatched it up so he could read it first.

Nathan cleared his throat, more for effect than anything else, and read the note aloud. “’Dear World, I have grown tired of living and find myself filled with hatred for me, so I have decided to murder myself to death. Sincerely, John Twinkletits.’ Whoa, brutal!”

Charles arched an eyebrow, looking over at his assistant. “‘Murdered myself to death?’ Really?”

“Yeah, it’s way more awesome and brutal than suicide. I wouldn’t have thought Twinkletits had it in him,” said Nathan.

Skwisgaar leapt up. “De butlers dids it!”

Everyone ignored him.

“Too bad Murderface isn’t here,” said Nathan. “For a guy that’s always talkin’ about killin’ himself murdering yourself to death is, like, something to aim for. Way more metal.”

Pickles was glaring at Seth, as he’d done since his elder brother arrived. “Yeah, it’s really somet’in’ to hope for.”

As some Klokateers were cleaning up Twinkletits’s corpse, Rockzo said something about needing to use the john and rushed from the room. Charles stood up and said he needed to ‘take care of something.’

“You’re not going to go work during our murder dinner, are you?” asked Nathan. “Because you can’t! You’ll miss all the murder. And the food!”

“I just wanted to, ah, go check up on a few things,” Charles reassured him.

“Like work things?”

“Of course not. I just, ah, want to make sure that Rockzo, ah, makes it back here. Safe and sound.” Charles cut his eyes off to the side at the last bit.

Nathan narrowed his eyes. “Okay sure fine.” He was _so_ gonna come get the guy if he didn’t come back in ten minutes. This murder dinner was special, fuckin’ damn it!

******

Seth waited five minutes after they left, and excused himself to go to the john. He found his brother’s manager, whom he now remembered was named Ofdensen, in the kitchens, with that irritating-ass clown. A pair of hoods were holding the struggling clown down.

Ofdensen pulled a switchblade from seemingly nowhere and inspected the gleaming blade thoughtfully. “Tell me. Do you know what a Glasgow smile is?” A ghost of a smile graced his lips as he held the switchblade up at clown eye level and twirled it meaningfully. “I’ll bet you can guess. You know, very few actually survive the experience. The victim screams instinctually, tearing the wound more and more as they do so. More often than not, they bleed to-“

Ofdensen seemed to sense Seth’s presence. The switchblade disappeared down his sleeve. He waved the hoods and clown away. Only the hood in a suit stayed by his side.

“’Hello there, Seth. Rockzo and I were, ah, just having a bit of a discussion.”

Seth grinned. Discussion, yeah. Right. Well, maybe he could turn this timing around and make it work for him. After all, Ofdensen was all about keeping up appearances. Seth was sure he’d hate for this kind of thing to get out.

“Y’know there, Ofdensen, I’ve been thinkin.’ I’ve been workin’ Dethklok Australia for a while now, and I thought it was high time you and me, heh, renegotiate my pay rate there.”

Ofdensen gestured towards the hood in a suit behind him, who turned and reached for a bottle of pricy-looking wine.

As the suit poured, Ofdensen regarded Seth evenly. “I’ve, ah, been giving your, ah, performance with Dethklok Australia some thought myself. Perhaps we do need to renegotiate things.” The hooded suit offered them each a glass before pouring himself one. Ofdensen raised his glass. “To new beginnings.”

Mr. Ofdensen lifted the glass to his lips. 5722, who considered lifting his hood in public to be gauche, merely held his glass. Seth, in what might have been meant as a show of manliness, or perhaps simple greed, downed the glass in one go.

Mr. Ofdensen heaved a sigh that conveyed a sadness 5722 assumed he did not actually feel and emptied his glass into the sink. 5722 did the same, and reached for the bottle to dispose of it similarly. Mr. Ofdensen had been very specific in his instructions that this was to happen. 5722 presumed he had foreseen the distinct possibility that Lord Pickles might find the bottle and drink it - even if he knew it was poisoned.

“You really shouldn’t have stolen from the boys like that,” said Mr. Ofdensen.

5722 finished his task, turning around just in time to see Seth blindly run past him and begin desperately retching into the same sink. Mr. Ofdensen ignored him.

“Jean-Pierre will serve the soup course in ten minutes. You should be in position in the sarcophagus three meters behind Seth’s seat within five. You already know where the hidden corridor that leads to it is. You’ll need to remain silent as possible when moving into position, or the boys will hear you. Jean-Pierre will fill a bowl for still-absent Seth, along with the other guests. As Jean-Pierre leaves, Number 1303 will hit the lights, and that will be your cue-“ Mr. Ofdensen eyed Seth, who was still bent over the sink, trying to vomit, then checked his watch.

“Does that bottle have a black ‘X’ on the bottom?”

5722, a worm of unease twisting in his gut, checked to see. “No, sir.”

Mr. Ofdensen did not appear to be phased, though 5722 knew he must understand the potentially disastrous ramifications if the bottle had fallen into the hands of one of the Masters. Instead, he merely pulled a small silvery pistol from the breast of his tuxedo, aimed, and shot Seth in the back of the head in that smooth, perfectly calculated, yet somehow casual way that only he could pull off. With the tux, 5722 couldn’t help but be reminded of James Bond.

Nobody could make your heart flutter by shooting a guy in the head like Mr. Charles F. Ofdensen could, he reflected.

Mr. Ofdensen replaced his pistol, smoothing his jacket as he turned to Jean-Pierre, who had not looked up from the saucepan over which his asymmetric body stood for the duration. “Jean-Pierre.”

Jean-Pierre shuffled around to face Mr. Ofdensen. “ _Oui, mon seigneur?_ ”

“Have some of your auxilary sous chefs search the kitchens for the missing bottle. I’m going to return to the dining room to make sure the boys haven’t gotten a hold of it.“

Mr. Ofdensen turned toward 5722, whose fluttering heart gleefully switched to a full-on hammering. “Dispatch Numbers 8500 and 8503 to look for the bottle elsewhere. Tell them to begin in the immediate area of this sector and work outwards. Otherwise, your orders remain the same. Make sure you are in the sarcophagus on time. Any questions?”

5722 stood at attention, praying his voice wouldn’t crack when he answered. “No, sir.”

Mr. Ofdensen nodded, then left without another word.

******

“Oh my God! Blood Soup! **GOOD SONG TITLE**!”

Pickles stood next to his brother’s lifeless corpse, Seth’s head floating in the butternut squash caviar cognac fois gras soup with white truffle shavings and gold leaf that Jean-Pierre had served them seconds ago. You could kinda see the soup through the hole in his head if you looked at the right angle.

Pickles drew a hand, quivering in shock, up to cover his mouth. His knees gave way and he sank to the carpet with a soft thud. He crumpled forward, shoulders shaking.

Behind him, Charles rose from his chair and took a few hesitant steps forward. Perhaps he had been wrong in assessing Pickles’s distaste for his brother? Did some affection still lurk under years of neglect and mistreatment? Had he caused Pickles grief by-

Pickles leapt up into the air, pumping his fist in unbridled joy. “Oh my gahd, I did it! I DID IT! I DIIIIIID IIIIIIT!”

Okay, then. Not so much.

Pickles wheeled around, point a triumphant finger at his brother’s perforated head. “I outlived you, ya sahrry gerahge burnin,’ lyin,’ thievin,’ creeper-ass king ‘o da mother effin’ douche bags! I never thought I’d do it, but I did it!” He jumped up on the table, kicking his soup bowl across the room in joy.

“I’m gahnna find me a lady and git her knahked up so me an’ my grandkids can smoke dope on yer effin’ grave! I did it, I’m livin’ in a world without this ding dong doodly doo douche bag in it! Ha HA! I’m gahnna go smoke me a bowl and pick out a tombstone for dis bastard! WOO!” Pickles pumped his fist one more time before dashing out of the room in joy.

The room fell silent for a few moments.

Skwisgaar spoke up. “So ja, I t’inks dats de ‘Bloods Soups’ cans be’s de good songs. De brains and de skulls bit ams in dere too, but dat’s don’t has de good rings on it like de ‘Blood Soup.’”

Nathan picked at his butternut squash cognac caviar fois gras soup. They never put in enough gold leaf to make it taste as metal as he wanted. “Yeah, but we can totally use the brains and skull fragments. I mean, we can work that into the chorus. A verse. Somethin.’”

“Maybes we could’s works in de bullets what makes de holes and de bloods, too,” Skwisgaar offered.

Nathan leaned in for a better look. “Nah, I think that went out the back. Or maybe the front? Hard to tell.”

“We’s could takes de articksticks licenses.”

Nathan shrugged, unconvinced. “I guess.”

Charles’s Dethphone vibrated, letting him know he had a message.

>>>8503: Sir. We’ve found the bottle in Lord Pickles’s room. It’s empty.

Charles heaved a sigh of relief. There was no way Pickles could have made it back to his room by now, or made it to the dining room if he had drunk it beforehand. Someone else must have drunk it. Everything was fine, so long as the person who had done so had signed their pain waiver beforehand. And if not, well. That was what forgery was for.

Dr. Rockzo eyed the people sitting around him at the table. Three more courses to go. It was him, Dethklok, and Ofdensen. Ofdensen eyed him from across the table. Dead-eyed. Expressionless. Rockzo judged this a good time to start sweating blood, and thus did so.

******

The salad course came next. Nathan grimaced down at the leafy green shit. Vegetable salad? Really? This is what they got for letting Toki pick a course? Fuckin’ typical.

“Fruits and de vegetable is de foods too,” Toki said defensively, having noticed that all the other plates weren’t touched either. Except his own. And Charles’s. But he probably only ate his to make Toki feel better. He was cool like that.

“Toki, we’ve been over this. Fruits and vegetables aren’t food. They’re just not, okay?”

“Is too!”

“Toki, they’re not food because nobody eats them. Things that people don’t eat aren’t food.”

“I eats dem!”

Nathan rolled his eyes. “You don’t count.”

Toki looked around, trying to find someone else who had eaten theirs too. His eyes lit up.

“Charles’s eat his!”

“Yeah, well-“ Nathan found he couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘He just was bein’ nice?’ Nahhh, it’d be a dick move, callin’ Charles out like that. Oh yeah! “Fuck you!”

“I don’ts cares if you fucks me, Nathan, Charles ams eats his too and dat means I was right! So’s ha! I told’s you sooo.” Nathan figured it was a good time to backhand Toki before he could break out into a song about he was right or something. So he did.

Charles sighed and thought about finance as he allowed Nathan and Toki’s little tiff to run its course. If he paid too of close attention, he would want to intervene, and that would only prolong things. Best to let it run its course. He checked his watch. Besides, the main course should be arriving any second, and it was steak. They’d be distracted and forget all about this soon enough.

~Meanwhile~

For the first time in his life, 5722 felt bad about killing someone. He didn’t know how to feel about that. It was an odd feeling, a little like when he had eaten the fish tacos that 8023 had made at the Klokateer mixer a few years back.

He approached Jean-Pierre, who was wheeling a large covered dish towards the dining room and fell into step with him “I’m, umm, sorry, but you’re on the list.”

Jean-Pierre didn’t turn around. _“Oui, monsieur.”_

5722 cleared his throat. “The other list. The, er, dead people one.”

Jean-Pierre rolled his eyes. One eye rolled up, the other rolled down. But he didn’t say anything. 5722 took that to mean that he already knew. Which made it a little bit better.

They reached the door. Jean-Pierre stood there expectantly. 5722 looked at him, at a loss. Was he supposed to say something else? Maybe ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I really liked the soup’ or ‘I’ll look you up after my entrails get torn out by whatever?’

“’ave not got all of ze day,” Jean-Pierre snapped.

“Oh! S-sorry.” 5722 decided it would be best to get it done quickly. He pulled the bolo knife strapped to his leg, drove it into Jean-Pierre’s heart, shoved him through the doors, then dashed off before he could be seen.

******

“Oh noes, not de cooks!” wailed Toki.

“Shit. What about dessert?” scowled Nathan.

“Dis is a real nice tombstone,” said Pickles serenely, flipping through the catalog that he had brought with him when he came back. “It’s gaht little urns on the sides fer flowers and stuff. I could put my ashes in ‘em when I smoke dere. Won’t have to worry ‘bout messin’ up da graveyard. Keep it nice.”

Charles rushed to Jean-Pierre’s side, rolling the man over and propping his head on his lap. It seemed 5722 had taken his knife with him.

“De butler dids it,” said Skwisgaar hands on hips, exceptionally proud for solving the mystery all by himself. Yet again.

Charles leaned in under the pretext of checking to see if Jean-Pierre were still breathing. “Did he pull it off?”

One of Jean-Pierre’s eyelids fluttered open. “ _Oui_ , but ‘e was, ‘ow you say? _un bitch pathétique_ about it, _mon seigneur_. Shall I?”

“Go for it.”

Jean-Pierre took a deep, dramatic breath. “I saw ze killer, _messeigneurs_! ‘e is-“ Jean-Pierre wheezed, then hacked up something pinkish, barely missing Charles’s tuxedo. “’e is posing as one of ze Gears, my Lords. As one of us!” Another drawn out breath. Charles could tell he was enjoying the attention.

“’e must have not known zat my ‘eart and giblets are not zere anymore. Find ze one who ‘as a ‘ood on ‘im!” He made a long ‘ack’ noise, then pretended to pass out. Or actually passed out. Whichever.

Skwisgaar humphed, crossing his arms, irked at being ignored. “De butler coulds has de Kloksateers hoods easy.”

Rockzo apparently sensed his chance to see tomorrow’s sunrise and went for it. He leapt up from his chair, which fell backwards with the force of the movement. He pointed a finger at Charles.

“I kuh-kuh-kuh know who the killer is! It’s… Uh-“ Rockzo realized that he had no idea what this guy’s name was. Shit, it had been all over the news that time he died, too. What was it, something starting with ‘O…’

“Charles,” supplied Toki helpfully.

“Actually, I ah, would _prefer_ that Rockzo, ah, just call me by my last name,” said Charles.

“It’s Ofdensen,” said a med-Klokateer who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Don’t mind me guys, just picking this here guy up and droppin’ him off to go get sewn back up.” With that, he hefted Jean-Pierre like a sack of flour and started carrying him out of the room, Disney Princess style.

“So, how ya doin,’ JP?”

Jean-Pierre stirred a bit and opened one sideways-sewn eye. “Pa si bon.”

“Not so good? How so?” The med-Klokateer asked earnestly.

“I ’ave been stabbed t’rough ze chest.”

“Oh wow, really? That sucks,” said the med-Klokateer as he nudged the door open with his foot. Then they were gone.

For a moment everyone sort of stared at one another. Nathan bared his teeth in annoyance. _‘Oh, way to ruin the mood there, fuckstick.’_

Rockzo seemed to remember what he was talking about. He pointed an accusatory finger at Charles again. “Who had all the opportunity in the world? You did! Who had an ax to grind with that brown-haired guy because Pickles hated him? You! Who wanted to get rid of that therapist guy with the robot arms because he had too much kuh-kuh control over the band probably? You did! The messed-up looking cook guy was probably kuh-kuh costing too much on the kuh-kuh company health care plan or something. And kuh-kuh Cornickelson? Everybody knew how much he hated the band, and how much they hated him. I bet you were just kuh-kuh itching to get rid of him.”

Nathan glanced over at Charles. “Wait, _Damien_ Cornickelson? When did he die?”

“He, ah, had an unfortunate accident on Mordhaus grounds earlier this evening.”

“ _Awesome_ ”

Rockzo put his hands on his hips in triumph. “I do cocaine!”

 _‘Well, this sucks,’_ thought Nathan, _’I don’t want my murder dinner ending with Charles going to jail. I like the guy.’_ Then Nathan got an idea. More than one person was supposed to be accused at the end of these things, right? As like a fake-out thing?

Nathan jumped out of his chair. “Nice try Rockzo, but I think we know who the real killer is.” He pointed one burly finger at Rockzo.

Toki gasped. “Rockszo’s! _How’s coulds you?!_ ”

Skwisgaar muttered something sullen about butlers. Pickles thumbed through his tombstone catalog, cooing over one with a nice angel statue ‘dat could totally hold a cooler.’

“You killed Cornickleson because he wouldn’t give you no record contract ‘cause you’re a washed out piece of shit cocaine-addled clown. You, uh-“ he turned to Charles. “How did Cornickelson die, anyway?”

“A, ah, gargoyle fell on top of him and crushed his skull. Or so I, ah, hear.”

“Oh my God, _awesome_.” Nathan turned back towards Rockzo. “Yeah, you dropped a stone gargoyle on him. You killed Twinkletits because he kept helpin’ Toki do those stupid, shitty intervention things, which made it harder to get cocaine out of him. Out of Toki, I mean. You killed Seth because he was a greedy dildo and nobody really liked that guy, so fuck it, why not? Let’s see, who else…”

“Jean-Pierre,” offered Charles.

“Oh, yeah! Uhhhhh…” Nathan frowned. Shit, Rockzo didn’t really have a reason for killing Jean-Pierre, or even for knowing he existed. That, and he had been in the room when Jean-Pierre was stabbed outside of it. But fuck it, so was Charles. Hrmm…. maybe he shouldn’t have done this shit off the top of his head. Oh, wait!

“You stabbed Jean-Pierre with a knife because it would throw people off your trail because you didn’t have a motive for killing him! HA!” Nathan was really proud of himself for that one.

Charles gazed impassively into the middle distance behind Rockzo. “Excellent deductive reasoning, Nathan. I’m willing to bet that we’ll find a Klokateer’s executioner hood hiding on Rockzo’s person, as well.”

A nearby hood standing guard grabbed Rockzo by the arm, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out the Klokateer hood that had been stuffed in there. “It is as you suspected, my lord,” she said.

A pair of burly Klokateers advanced on Rockzo. Toki frowned, making his Fu Manchu stretch oddly. “Wow-wee, it gettings really expensive to always bails you out of jails, Rockzo’s. How much it cost to bails somebodys out for de murders anyways?”

Rockzo said the only thing that could really be said in his situation: “Awww, fuck.”

Charles allowed himself a small smile as he watched the trio particularly zealous hoods drag Rockzo away, making sure to liberally use their night-sticks while doing so. It seemed Nathan had been right about the ‘murder dinner’ being fun.

******

After a bunch of hoods dragged Rockzo off to jail or whatever, things got quiet. Kinda boring, really. Somebody brought out dessert, but Nathan wasn’t into sweets. Even sweets with booze in them that Pickles had picked out. Nathan picked at it. There probably wasn’t even going to be any more murder, what with the ‘culprit’ gone. Nathan realized that the seat to his right was empty. He looked up to find Charles leaning against the railing of balcony that was attached to the dining room. He decided there wasn’t anything wrong with following him out there. He let Toki have the rest of his tira-whatever dessert and went outside.

Charles didn’t say anything to Nathan when he opened the door, but that was fine. There wasn’t anything that needed saying. It was kinda cool to just sort of hang out together, not havin’ to come up with anything to say or do. No pressure to do anything other than just be. Nathan decided it was actually pretty awesome, maybe even better than when Twinkletits had murdered himself to death. Which was saying something, because that had been pretty brutal.

After a while, Nathan found himself staring at the missing ring tan line from before. Now that he knew what to look for, it kinda stood out. How long had that fuckin’ thing been there? He still couldn’t remember if had ever seen Charles wearing a ring. Could he have gotten a divorce without them knowing? Nathan hoped not. He was pretty sure that if someone you knew like he knew Charles got a divorce, then you were just supposed to know and, like, take him out to series of strip clubs and bars to make him feel better and stuff. Nathan thought that them not doing that for Charles might make them dicks. Then again, Charles was a pretty private guy, so may-

“Is something the matter?”

Nathan realized he been caught staring.

“Well, yeah. I mean no. I mean-“

Charles waited, patient as ever, as Nathan blundered his way through a sentence. Nathan had always sorta liked that Charles did that. Other people would get impatient, which only made things worse, or would decide he was too stupid to bother fucking with and would walk off, typically about 0.5 seconds before Nathan managed to get his shit together.

“I mean, you used to be married?”

Charles made kind of a ‘what the fuck’ face, like he hadn’t been expecting that, and looked down. His eyes went a little sad around the edges and Nathan felt like a huge wagging dildo for bringing it up in the first place instead of minding his own business like he should have.

“After all these years…” Charles seemed to snap out of it, or maybe he just put his business face back on to cover for himself. Nathan wasn’t sure. “I was, but that was years ago. I’m, ah, actually surprised you can still tell the ring was there. I guess you could say I’m, ah, married to my job now.”

 _‘But,’_ Nathan wondered, _’aren’t we your job? Does that mean you’re married to us?’_

At first, Nathan felt pleased at the thought, but then he remembered that Murderface was a part of the band, too. Nathan grimaced at the thought. Ugh, talk about brutal.

They lapsed back into silence for a little while, simply enjoying one another’s company. After a while, Nathan remembered something.

“So, like, I had this idea earlier tonight…”

******

5722 reentered the dining room sometime after dessert had been served. Mr. Ofdensen had given him orders to let him know once the clown had been ‘properly contained.’ ‘Properly contained’ being a euphemism for ‘beaten to fuckdom and dragged off to jail,’ in this case.

He found Mr. Ofdensen’s seat empty. A cursory glance of the room revealed that he had stepped out onto the adjoining balcony with Lord Explosion. 5722 moved to follow him but was stopped when Lord Pickles caught him by the arm.

“I wouldn’ do dat if I was you.”

At first 5722 was confused, but then he saw, really _saw_ Mr. Ofdensen and Lord Explosion. The way Lord Explosion looked at Mr. Ofdensen, the way that Mr. Ofdensen’s body language was so much more relaxed than 5722 had ever seen. And it made sense, didn’t it? They had always gravitated towards one another, growing even closer since Mr. Ofdensen returned from his ‘leave of absence.’ They were already friends, which always helped. They even looked really good together.

5722’s heart sank. Then his body sank into a nearby chair. He knew he was being stupid. After all, if anyone was out of his league then Mr. Ofdensen was. But still. Still.

“Wanna drink?” Lord Pickles offered 5722 a flask of something unidentifiable.

“Ah-“ 5722 was well aware that he shouldn’t be drinking on the job, but wasn’t sure if his contract allowed him to say no to one of the Masters.

Lord Pickles sighed. “Yeah yeh do.”

5722 took the flask, not without some misgivings. “Yeah, I do.”

“I made it myself,” said Lord Pickles conversationally as 5722 drank. “It’s jest a mix of a buncha stuff I had lyin’ around, but it’s pretty good. Gaht some Absinthe left over from last week in dere, a splish-splash of Jager, some moonshine I gaht outta Kentucky, and oo! Da rest’a dat bottle of fancy-lookin’ wine I found in the kitchens dis afternoon. Good stuff. Had a bit of a weird taste to it, though. Kinda like-“

5722 crumpled to the floor.

“-almonds.”

Pickles nudged 5722 with his foot.

“Aaahfdensen! I think I broke yer assistant. Saaahrry.”

******

Elsewhere, as Jean-Pierre’s chest wound was sewn shut with fair accuracy (though it was still technically wrong, given his current physical situation), the corpses of Damien Cornickelson, Johnathon Twinkletits, Seth, and sundry other individuals that had met their fate on Mordhaus grounds that evening, were fed into the meat grinder in sector 56H to become the main ingredient for the cafeteria’s famous sloppy Joes, which would be served the following Monday.

Toki ate his dessert, as well as Nathan’s, Pickles’s and Charles’s, then retired to his room to watch ‘Watership Down,’ a real cool movie about bunnies he had found on Netflix.

Afterwards, Skwisgaar left for his own room, where he had a ravishing three sets of twins, ages 19, 47, and 88 waiting for him.

He still thought the butler did it.


End file.
